Story: Peter Making Memories

Peter, aged nine, and David, aged twelve, were part of a large family group preparing to raft the Youghiogheny River, affectionately known to locals as “the Yawk,” in Ohiopyle State Park, approximately 65 miles southeast of Pittsburgh.

David, with his own inflatable kayak—a “ducky”—quickly proved to be a confident and capable paddler. Peter, however, was disappointed to learn he couldn't paddle solo because of his young age and would instead have to join a raft or tandem boat. Consequently, he and I teamed up in a double ducky.

When rafting the Youghiogheny, two primary options exist: the Upper River, characterized by mostly flat water with gentle Class I and II rapids, or the Lower River, which boasts larger, faster Class III and IV rapids. The latter, while thrilling, can be potentially dangerous, especially during high water. Our group opted for the Lower River.

With the park rangers' approval, we pushed off. David paddled independently, always within sight, clearly in his element. At each major rapid, guides stationed on the banks shouted instructions to aid our navigation. Initially, Peter wasn't enthused about being paired with me, but his perspective shifted once he discovered his purpose on the river.

After each rapid, we frequently observed empty boats drifting solo, indicating a wipeout. This was our cue to spring into action. We would grab the loose paddle, then pull alongside the unmanned kayak. Peter would then leap in, steer it back to its paddler—typically waiting on the shore—and hop back into our boat. We began to feel like river lifeguards. Eventually, we intentionally started to hang back, going last through the rapids to spot stragglers and offer assistance when needed.

On one occasion, Kim, who was slightly older than Peter, was tossed from her raft and swept into a particularly large rapid. Initially, she appeared terrified, but then her expression transformed—she lit up, grinning and waving as if on a roller coaster. She crested a wave and landed gently on the edge of a large rock mid-rapid, then crawled to its highest point. There she was, stranded on a boulder in the middle of one of the biggest rapids, still smiling and waving as other boaters floated by.

Peter and I knew we had to time our approach perfectly. As we moved into position, we called for Kim to jump, and she did, landing in our boat mid-rapid. We then ferried her back to her raft through the swirling water, all three of us having fun along the way.

By the end of the day, we were sun-drenched, soaked, exhausted, and exhilarated. We hauled our boats to the trailer and boarded the bus for the 40-minute ride back to town.

Upon returning to Ohiopyle, we observed a group of local kids jumping off a bridge into the river below. They assured us it was safe, provided one landed in the deep spot; missing it could result in serious injury. That was enough for David, who wisely opted out of the activity. But Peter was intrigued.

Wanting to eliminate safety concerns, I decided to try it first. I climbed onto the narrow guardrail. The narrow cutting edge felt uncomfortably, and the drop was high enough to make you think twice. With butterflies in my stomach, I jumped, and realized it wasn't bad. I concluded it was safe enough for Peter, should he still wish to try.

Peter climbed onto the guardrail and froze. Balancing there, unmoving, he started having a mini breakdown. Attempting to help, I began a countdown: “Three... two—”

“DON’T COUNT!” he shouted, his face crumpling as he began to cry.

I gently pulled him down and hugged him. “You don’t have to do this,” I said. “Look how big David is, and he doesn’t want to do it.”

Peter looked up at me, eyes still wet, and said, “Dad, you have so many stories to tell because you do things like this. If I don’t do it... I won’t have any stories.”

I thought about what he said and then helped him back up onto the rail.

“Okay,” I said. “Go ahead and jump.”

He was still scared, still teary, but he stood tall, took a breath, and whispered to himself: “I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna do it.” And then, he jumped.

As he soared, he shouted: “I’m gonna do iiiiiit!” He popped up from the water with a huge grin—pure joy and pride on his face. Then he did it again. And again. And again.

When we got home, Peter retold the story—every jump, every rapid, every rescue—with the kind of energy only a nine-year-old can bring. I smiled, and listened. He added some great stories to his collection that day.